


maker

by scarsimp



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Being too caught up in your work makes ppl pull away from you, Bickering, Gen, Kinda, but its okay, fun fact, his brother does die tho but like, scars brother is too obsessive sometimes, they eventually talk, they parallel ed and al, we been knew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:48:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26382160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarsimp/pseuds/scarsimp
Summary: (He is ten years old and his brother is the only steady person in his life. Their mother works and works and he has never met his father. His brother is the one who wipes the tears off his face when he falls and press sticky bandages to his knees and elbows; his brother is the one to answer his questions about the world.)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	maker

**Author's Note:**

> Listen to maker by anjimiles and tell me it's not a song about scar's brother

He hasn't seen his brother in hours and the worry is starting to fester in his chest, a small doubt that he wasn't actually there, that something had happened, that an Amestrian had—

The anxiety mulls around in his skull as he picks himself over rocks, rolling his eyes and reminding himself to sweep the porch. The lights in the house are off, and he sighs in exasperation as he pushes the door open and spots his brother; hunched over a desk where he had left him this morning. 

"Hey," he raised a brow and tried not to laugh at the way his brother jolted. "Have you eaten?" 

"Not hungry." The answer is short and distracted, and he chokes down another sigh. Shakes his head, casting a weary glance over the stacks of papers and ink stains coating the wood of his old desk. The piles are almost obnoxiously big, and books balance precariously on the edges and around the floor near the legs. 

He fought down the urge to pick them up, remembering the last time he had tidied; it went very unappreciated, his brother instead snapping at him to leave everything alone. 

_ (He is ten years old and his brother is the only steady person in his life. Their mother works and works and he has never met his father. His brother is the one who wipes the tears off his face when he falls and press sticky bandages to his knees and elbows; his brother is the one to answer his questions about the world.) _

The kitchen is empty and untouched. Clean from where he had wiped everything down that morning after breakfast. When his brother hadn't touched his food. "You really need to put that down." He calls out, a stream of annoyance in his voice that he didn't try to hide. "You haven't eaten all day." 

"I said I'm not hungry." The same tone deaf voice, and he glares at the plate he reaches to pull out of the counter. The motion pulls at something in his shoulder and he hisses, trying to muffle the noise down. It's loud in the silence anyway and he takes a breath, before moving to the stove. 

He makes his brother's favorite. He gets it right, as always. It looks and smells like what their mother would occasionally make, before she fell sick with something they could not understand. A beast that ate away at her spine and hands until the joints were gnarled and swollen, a fever her constant companion. Sometimes when night creeps in and the temperature drops his joints creak like hers did and his brother finally, finally turns away from his work. He looks at him just as he looked at mother; afraid.

He leaves it on the stove and eats his share and his brother still sits at their "shared" desk and works away. The scratch of pen against paper is almost painful in his ears and he gnaws at his lip, drumming fingers along the dinner table. 

The food gets cold. His brother never eats. That would be three meals missed in favor of alchemy and mathematics. Things he understood, yes, but things his brother was obsessed with. 

_ (One day, after asking a question that surely his brother wouldn't know, he answered. It was nothing special in the long run, something he knew now, after years of building and alchemy and fighting. "Why do things break?" He had been sniffling, still young enough to get away with easy flowing tears. His brother had looked painfully fond, wiping them from under his eyes and shaking his head in exasperation. "Everything breaks if you push too hard," his voice was gentle, "it's called pressure. People use it all the time.")  _

"This is hurting you," he declares it with a hand on the desk, glaring down. A familiar irritation is building in his throat and he tries to fight it back— he's already upset enough. Too sensitive.

"Don't know what you're talking about." His brother took a moment to glance at his hand, before staring back down at his papers, always his papers. 

"What do you mean?" He hears his voice pitch and tries to take a breath. "You haven't eaten all day, you haven't bathed— you haven't even moved since I left for the citadel!" The pen finally stops scraping, and his brother looks up. 

"Can't you just  _ listen _ ," he snaps, his eyes narrowed and angry. 

"Not when it's making you unhappy!" 

"I'm  _ discovering  _ something, just let me be." He waved a dismissive hand and turned away. "There's something going on, here. I'll show you when I figure it out." 

"Brother, please—"

"Didn't mama always tell you to mind your maker?" his voice is stern, a tone he hadn't heard since he was a child and they were freshly alone. "Just cut it out, I'll eat tonight or something." 

There is an ache in his chest and he grits his teeth behind his lips, watching as his brother flips a page and draws something on it with unnecessary force. He swallows, quiet for a moment. "It's already night." Is all he says before he shoves his hands into his pockets and turns towards his room. 

He doesn't sleep well that night and he's fairly certain his brother doesn't sleep at all, but when he wakes up and cooks breakfast as always neither of them mention it. 

His food stays untouched, anyways. The silence is too thick in the house and when he leaves for the day it's with a small goodbye and barely a response. 

_ (He can still remember being small— five, or six. Long before he was the taller of them, long before they fell apart. He can remember being shown the stars, up on their roof late at night when he was supposed to be asleep. His brother was eleven and held his chubby hand, helping him point to each one. "What are they?" He had asked, in childish awe. His brother had paused, falling silent for a moment. "I don't know," he eventually admitted, laughter in his voice.)  _

He shouldn't have asked. 

Maybe they'd both be alive. Maybe they'd both be dead. Only Ishvala knew and he didn't know if he wanted to or not. 


End file.
